Colors
by Bellsie805
Summary: And everything'll be reduced to black.


Title: Colors

Author: Bellsie

Disclaimer: None of it's mine

POV: CJ's as she contemplates leaving.

Summary: And everything'll be reduced to black.

Author's Note: The scene where CJ walks into the Oval Office in Election Day inspired this piece. It's very much stream-of-conscious, thus the reason why it makes no sense.

_She says nothing of what she thinks_

_She just goes stumbling through her memories_

_Staring out onto Grey Street_

_She thinks, "Hey,_

_How did I come to this?_

_I dream myself a million times around the world,_

_But I can't get out of this place_

--Dave Matthews Band, "Grey Street"

_Action!_

And this is how it ends. Blues, reds, creams, colors—the shades of her life—and now everything'll be reduced to black and fade out, fade out…She got her start in Hollywood and that's how she'll end. You see, things fade, things end, we die, die, die…In Hollywood they like big explosions, violent outbursts—things that keep the audience captivated. But this, this ending isn't what she had in mind. Her world crashes silently around her, the pieces scattering in a million directions—under things, over things, in between the gaps of life, love, and liberty. The pursuit of happiness…where should she start? With a middle-aged reporter (Oh, but she's old herself now, too.)? Should she troll the waters of vibrant young men, with idealism like Sam Seaborn and the insecurity of Will Bailey? What can she do? Charlie wants her to take this job and that job, but she can't work for some corporation again. She can't. She worked for the biggest corporation in the world, how can Johnson and Johnson compare? President Bartlet and the spin boys, oh remember how much fun it was! Remember back before everything? The first days of the administration…that's what she wants, but how does she turn back time and get that again? Toby's gone and going to jail, Josh is gallivanting with the Santos campaign (He'll be chief of staff and his dreams, his dreams, yes, he'll have them come true.) Sam's in California, she thinks, and occasionally she sees the odd news piece on him and that's that, but what else is there when the Internet still leaves a bloody abyss between two parties? Two people? Perhaps he found happiness…She fears she'll see him too soon. The President is flying in from Manchester and that...that leaves Leo. Leo, Leo, Leo…Leo's dead and that's why she's standing here, not knowing what the future holds because Leo's dead and with Leo dead nothing makes sense anymore. Colors, colors, sure, let them bleed together, but Leo! He's always been there! And now he's not…Anchors lift and she's adrift, floating in a sea of nothingness. Oh, poor Annabeth. She had talked to her for a few minutes days ago and happiness translated poorly over the phone, but she could still hear it. How could she not? She has missed it for so long and to hear it—pure love and unadulterated joy—to hear it, she knew it. Good for the perky blonde and the stuffy old man, she thought, three days ago when she had gotten off the phone…"Good for them, and I'm only a slightly bit jealous that everyone's got love and I don't have anything." And now she feels guilty for thinking that because Leo's dead and Annabeth's grieving and there'll be a funeral, a funeral. Mrs. Landingham's was hard enough, and so was Simon's, and oh, God, why has there been so much death in this White House? Tragedy magnets the lot of them. Did she save anyone, really? She saved those two turkeys once, and Gail still sits on her desk—Animal savior? She should go into that business after she leaves. And the wind whips at the windows and she sees the Secret Service agents' hair outside twist in circles and curls and cry is what she wants to do because this doesn't make sense…No sense…none at all. The future is uncertain, the past is cloudy, and the present is just wrong. Leo should be getting ready to be sworn-in as the Vice-President. He shouldn't sit in some morgue, waiting to be prepared for burial and lowered into the ground. No! It's wrong. But what can she do? Charlie says she could have world domination, but she can't save anyone. She can't save herself. Horrible admittance, but here, in the Oval Office, staring at nothing, in the quiet of the room, she knows, knows that she's a boat adrift—Leo's gone, the anchor's been lifted. The boys are all over the country and in so many messes. She misses people she didn't even realize she remembered. Ainsley and Mandy and Joey Lucas and Amy and, and, and…She could disappear. How can she end? Eight years this investment, eight years! Is she really supposed to quit? Josh would take her on in the Santos administration, but she can't work for anyone but President Bartlet. When she pledges allegiance to that flag, it's to him and his ideals and everything for which he stands…and he'll be dead soon, too, because he's old and he has MS and what else is there left for a man after he's had the presidency of the United States? Death is the only thing near as fitting, near as grand. The final end versus the greatest power. He'll retire to Manchester and farm or read Latin or something else—and she'll visit and watch his sad eyes as he stares at pictures of the people he's lost. Of the people he misses. She forgets that yes, indeed, she suffered losses, but the president's were greater. He's been betrayed by all of them at one point or the other, except for Leo. Leo never betrayed him, but now Leo's gone and dead and going to be buried under a white cross or Italian marble or something equally expensive, but that will never match his cost. Oh, God. Leo. It'll never hit her fully, death doesn't, never does. A million questions run through her mind and she can't answer any of them—dozens of days as press secretary, dodging mines, ducking bullets, and her own still hits her. Questions, questions, questions…Unanswerable, so she won't even try. Sunlight filters through the Oval's windows and this, this is the end. Bright lights and heavy wind. Colors blur and disappear and it's not black, and it's not white or red or blue. Patriotism is far from her thoughts. Gray appears and scatters again—Colors become nonexistent and everything disappears around her…Blurry, torn, and ragged edges…Bartlet's desk, the Presidential Seal…Rugs, curtains, books and busts…Couches and pitchers and lamps…Secret Service agents, secretaries and it's over, over, over…

Cue tears.

_And cut!_


End file.
